


The Art of Envy

by exquisitelymorose



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Jealousy, these two are the least hetero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisitelymorose/pseuds/exquisitelymorose
Summary: “Annette Shepherd.” Jane raises her eyebrows, “Are you attracted to Annette Shepherd, Jane?”“Attract,” Jane says, like she’s tasting the word for the first time, “the power to evoke interest.” A beat passes, “I believe I know all there is to know about Annette Shepherd, so no, I would not consider myself interested.”Jane & Claire.





	The Art of Envy

**Author's Note:**

> Alright gals & gays. This season was tough to get through so I may have done some serious skipping around just to see what I wanted to see. It usually takes me a few watches to understand what the hell is going on but I haven’t done that and I was pretty much out after Chapter 71. But alas, here we are. So basically, plot holes likely abound. Leave comments of what you’d like to see from these two, I’m happy to write more though they may be one shots.

Jane Davis knows exactly who the fuck she is. Perhaps more importantly, she knows exactly who she is not. Despite feeling extremely confident and presenting herself as poised and self-assured, not just in herself but in her dealings, she knows she’s not one of the most powerful women in America. Sure she gets cocky sometimes, believing that she’ll get away with certain moves, sly and cunning. That’s what makes her such an asset. It also makes her a potential danger to the President and they both know it. For that reason she has to play her cards close to her chest. One misstep and she could be gone. Wiped from the world. Literally. Some days it’s exciting, mostly it’s exhausting. 

When Annette Shepherd glides in, leaving the three of them in a triangle in the oval office, Jane is once again reminded of all that she is and all that she’s not. She is not elegantly beautiful or divinely feminine. She is not a mother or a billionaire or a woman of breathy, underhanded words. No, she is no Annette Shepherd. Only moments before her entrance, Jane had been relishing in her moment with Claire. After three months away, she can’t help but appreciate her time with the President. She doesn’t think too hard about what that means. She likes Claire. She’s also dedicated her entire life, sacrificed any semblance of an ordinary existence, just to find herself in this moment. To think too hard about any of it would be a misuse of her time and energy. So she doesn’t. But she does note that feeling, a small rush, when she looks up from the notes she’s passing off and sees the younger woman’s eyes trained, unflinchingly, on the v of skin left exposed by her crimson shirt. 

Jane has watched Claire deal with all numbers of people, men and women. She was even there for the final moments of the other woman’s marriage, as strained as it was. None of it has ever failed to make her believe that she has an edge on the average person. That she is just a bit closer than most people are allowed. Annette, with their history and her influence, does not secure that thought. As she watches her and the President take seats opposite each other, hands gripping the edges of Claire’s desk, she feels that slither low in her belly. The one that threatens to creep up her throat and out of her mouth with bitterness. Claire could tell her tomorrow that she detests Annette more than Dalton McGinnis, Viktor Petrov, Donald Blythe and an entire list of notoriously awful men combined and she’d still resent the familiarity in their tones. So she picks at the handles of her purse and sees herself out.

She chastises herself when she wraps up a dinner meeting and doesn’t really feel much like going back to the White House. Where she lives. Across the hall from the President. The likelihood that they’ll see each other isn’t so great, not with the schedules they keep. At this hour, she’ll close herself up in her room, make a few calls, check a few things on her laptop and slip into bed long before Claire. But the idea of going back there and running the risk at all, it wears on her nerves. It’s been a long day. She wants the taste of whiskey in her mouth, silk on her skin and just a few hours to get her head, occupied with spite and a dash of envy, on straight before another day. 

When the black car arrives and the door is opened for her, she breathes deeply. And when she lets herself through the heavy wooden doors and onto the cream colored carpet, she nearly sighs. Because in the room beyond her, nearly curled on the couch in their shared space, is Claire. She checks her watch, 8:47. 

“Are you attracted to her?”

Claire’s words come, curious and light, as Jane passes through the arches into the sitting room. All she can muster is a small chuckle and a shake of her head.

“You know, my only role here is to advise and counsel. Yet, I believe since my time here began, I’ve heard the words ‘attracted’ and ‘attraction’ passed around more than anything else. One has to wonder why that is,” Jane takes the couch opposite Claire who has her fixed with a knowing stare and just a slight whisper of a smile. When she says nothing, the older woman finally concedes, “attracted to whom, Madame president?” 

“Annette Shepherd.” Jane raises her eyebrows, “Are you attracted to Annette Shepherd, Jane?”

“Attract,” Jane says, like she’s tasting the word for the first time, “the power to evoke interest.” A beat passes, “I believe I know all there is to know about Annette Shepherd, so no, I would not consider myself interested.”

“Physically.”

“Objectively, Annette is a stunning woman.”

“Subjectively?”

“I don’t care much for her.”

Claire merely smirks and picks up a tumbler of amber liquid and presses it to her lips. “Join me?” Jane doesn’t hesitate to push herself up in search of a glass. This is what she’d hoped for anyways. 

When she takes her seat again, Claire speaks, “I find it interesting that you want to know why I asked but you won’t ask me.”

Jane only laughs into her own crystal glass, “I think it’s fairly obvious that I have no problem asking or stating what’s on my mind, Claire.”

“Ask me then.”

“Why do you want to know if I’m attracted to Annette?”

“So I can figure out what about her makes you uncomfortable.”

“If you think my attraction to someone would impede on my ability to be around them, you’re less perceptive than I thought,” she fixes Claire with a hard stare, “I’m not a man.”

“What is it then?”

“I’m not sure I understand why you think that.”

“The meeting, today.”

“I excused myself from a meeting that wasn’t mine. I was unaware that was an issue.” When Claire responds by taking a sip from her glass, Jane continues, “You say that while I was gone you didn’t think of me at all. But it seems to be a habit of yours to make an issue of something when I come and go without your permission.”

“I was simply making an observation, Jane.”

“Not even the president is always right.”

“My senses rarely fail me. My apologies.”

Jane lets the liquid burn down her throat, where tens of excuses and confessions lay. They lapse into a silence that is neither comfortable or uncomfortable. It simply is. When Jane stands to excuse herself to her room, Claire pats the spot on the couch next to her. The older woman sits softly as Claire crosses her legs. 

“I trust your opinion and when I felt that there may have been something between you and Annette, I was only curious to know how you felt. That’s all.” 

“I appreciate that but I can assure you, it was nothing like that.”

“But it was something?”

Jane sighs, more out of frustration then anything at all. She doesn’t know how this conversation will end if she doesn’t give Claire something, anything. The way they’re sitting, she can feel the heat from the other woman’s silk covered thigh against the bare skin of her own where her skirt has ridden up. There’s whiskey in her veins. Where Jane is from, that makes a woman feisty. And the smell of the woman next to her? Well, this is the moment where the exhaustion becomes excitement. But she bites the inside of her cheek and contemplates. Then she breaths.

“When you have the privilege, Madam President,” Janes eyes have that wicked glint, one corner of her mouth turned up, “of being close to you… it can be difficult to be reminded that other people have existed in that circle.”

When their eyes meet, Claire’s eyebrow raises slightly, “is that envy I hear in your voice?” 

“I guess if you called it something else you could be mincing words.”

“Jane,” Claire begins and suddenly the heat of her palm is over Janes knee, “Annette is nothing more than we need her to be. Merely a player in the game.”

“And aren’t I a player in the same game?”

“More like… assistant coach.” They both laugh lightly at the odd use of metaphor and Jane notices Claire’s hand still rests over her skin. She reaches down and brushes her knuckles over the thin skin, veins visible, before turning it over and grasping it with her own.

“Are you attracted to her?” Jane asks, letting go of Claire’s hand and resting her own in her lap, “if you asked, on some level you must find her attractive.”

“Like you said, objectively.”

“And subjectively?”

“Subjectively, I find you incredibly attractive.”

By Claire’s wicked smile, Jane knows she’s more than impressed by the slight look of shock that must’ve crossed her features. 

“You can’t be surprised by that.” Claire says finally. 

“Given your track record with men, I can’t say I didn’t have to doubt it.”

“Well I know nothing of your history and I never doubted it for a moment.”

“What?”

“Your attraction to me.”

This feels like the game. Jane thinks of herself, standing at Claire’s side as “assistant coach.” But when the younger woman’s hand comes up to move her hair behind her ear and stroke a thumb across her cheekbone, she sees herself clearly for what she is. Just one of the many players. And as soft lips capture her own, she knows it’s true. When teeth graze and she finally, finally tastes the whiskey and a hint of cigarette smoke on Claire’s tongue, she knows she’d be an incredible fool to believe anything else. But damn, she thinks as she grabs desperately at the Presidents hip, if this is part of the game she gets to play, she’ll do it regardless of where she stands.


End file.
